


this is why we can't have nice things

by Anonymous



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Slow Burn, book one retelling from adam's pov, soft angst and yearning. so much yearning.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She has a mouth made for smiling, even if it’s mostly at his expense.
Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Kudos: 12
Collections: Anonymous





	this is why we can't have nice things

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a festive gift for a friend, and grew into something more. expect at least two parts to this.

It takes little more than a look, that first time.

She’s different, in the light of day, the streaks of pale sunlight filtering in through the window highlighting the slope of her cheekbones, the deep chestnut of her hair, the brilliant sea-glass of her eyes.

She has a mouth made for smiling, even if it’s mostly at his expense.

She’s wearing an outfit similar to the one she’d worn the day before, loose-fitting casual attire, chosen for comfort over appearance, and it suits her, even if it is impractical. Then again, in a town such as this, he supposes he could understand, to some level, her carelessness. 

Still, it reveals an innocence, a naivete, reflected in her age as she perches herself on the edge of her desk, feet swinging idly as she glances over his team.

“Roseanne Hwang,” she’d said in introduction, voice as clear as a bell, a gentle smile gracing her petite features. Her charm is genuine, her tongue sharp and well practiced, and even with the prickle of irritation he’d felt something else stir, then, deep within the confines of his chest.

(A stirring he’d forgotten he could feel, something unnamed, and unwanted.)

He doesn’t let it show. He’s had years of practice masking his true emotions, and it would take more than a sweet face and a soft voice to break his composure; to overshadow the concerns he has about the nature of their business here. 

(He still believes that the detective should have been taken into Agency custody - that this _charade_ of inter-agency cooperation was nothing but a mistake.)

Still, he finds his eyes following her, tracking her movements through the station as she introduces them to chief pathologist, a man short in stature, if not in intellect - and it’s only Nate’s voice, a short while later, that manages to break it, drawing his attention back to the moment.

It means nothing. (It will mean nothing.)

\--

It’s subtle, at first. The way his attention is drawn to her, and at first, he ascribes it to the obvious: the mission. His orders to protect her, coupled with the personal connection to their unit leader, a woman who, in her years of steady loyalty and dedication to the agency, had proven herself a dozen times over. Who, when he thought of humans, he considered an _exception._

It’s not long after he’s gotten to spend some time with the detective alone that he has a new answer - that the reason he can’t seem to shift her from his thoughts is because she was _designed_ to linger there, as stubbornly persistent as a burr, and equally as aggravating. 

It is, he thinks, something inherent to her, fundamental in the way she was built - every part of her carefully designed to _get on his nerves._

It’s in the angle of the smirk she levels his way as she collects their drinks at the bar, her amusement clear as she glances over him, dark brows lifted towards her hairline. Her fingers wrap around the necks of the beer bottles as she leans towards the youngest member of unit bravo, lips curling around the words - soft and teasing, _I never took him for a wine guy_ , and the thin stem of the wineglass nearly snaps in his grip before he catches himself.

His inability to completely distance himself from his emotions causes him to make mistakes. Causes his ironclad hold on his own control to falter.

Causes him to be careless.

He wasn’t expecting the ambush, and they aren’t prepared for it.

The detective fares poorly in the fight. He’s dedicated years, centuries of his life, to eliminating his weaknesses. It’s a task he has achieved through extensive training - both physical and mental, until he’d refined his control of his abilities, executing himself with precision and accuracy. The perfect weapon.

Even if there hadn’t been much of a need for combat in her role before, she should have known better by now. The thick layer of her hoodie does nothing but slow her down as she avoids the second thrall’s clumsy fist, and it clips her cheek, sending her staggering backwards - and leaving her defenses wide open.

He only has a moment to react. Throwing his adversary to the side, he closes the distance between them, positioning himself close enough to her that he can catch the scent of her perfume, floral and sweet on the air. The grateful smile she flashes his way tightens something within his chest, but he doesn’t have time to consider it before the thrall gets to his feet and the fight resumes.

They’re outnumbered, but not overwhelmed - and the number of thralls that had ambushed them were concerning, should have been _impossible_ given the time of day - but with the combined efforts of unit bravo, they manage to dispatch them easily enough.

Most of them.

The one she had been facing - the one he’d thought she’d _dealt with -_ slips beneath his guard, landing a hit against her temple that he can _hear_ , a sickening _crack_ in the air, and she crumples, small form folding towards the ground with a soft sigh. 

He’s at her side in a flash of movement as Mason takes on the thrall, catching her before she falls, and she’s small in his arms and so light that he’s afraid she’ll slip right through them.

_“Detective.”_

She doesn’t respond. The scent of her blood is heavy on the air, heavier than it was at the bar, and cradling her head, he brushes back her hair to see the wound at her temple, bright and glistening under the streetlight.

A flicker of movement, before Mason arrives at his side, cigarette drooping from his lips. _“Shit.”_

They need to move - need to get her somewhere safe - but the sight freezes something within him, that tightness in his chest stirring again, hot and clenching. It’s not until Nate calls his name, warm palm firm on his shoulder, voice low and strained with tension, that he returns to himself and begins to move.

The tightness eases, finally, many hours later, when the fae clinician reports that the detective will make a full recovery.

\--

Nate notices that something has changed, of course, because he always does - and it’s later in the quiet of their shared living space that he addresses it, warm eyes creased with concern as he meets his gaze, the question in them unmistakable: _are you alright?_

He glances away, unable to hold the stare, even as he feels the weight of it: expectant, waiting.

 _“I am fine,”_ he manages to grit out, the words heavy and leaden on his tongue, before he leaves the room.

\--

Later, he’ll think about that moment outside the bar, the wet heat of her blood on his hands, the memory of it on the back of his tongue.

There was a complexity to it, something that reminded him of the oldest vintages in his homestead cellars back in Normandie, older varieties of the grape that have since been lost to time.

It was the bloodlust, then, that caused him to hesitate. Of course it was.

Nothing more.


End file.
